From Paris, with love
by superninjagurl
Summary: Special Agent Noah Puckerman has been working on the same case for several years. It's name? Operation Porcelain. It's objective? To catch the incredibly skilled con artist Kurt Hummel, who has got more than one trick up his sleeve.


_A/N: This is a little something I wrote for the 31 Days of Puckurt Drabbles in January over at the Puckurt comm on livejournal. This is the drabbles compiled and edited to an oneshot instead._

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><p><strong>From Paris, with love<strong>

**TUESDAY JULY 5, 2011**

The postcard arrived on an otherwise very ordinary Tuesday. The department buzzed with its regular chatter, the clicking of fingers against keyboards and the sharp signals of telephones. Puck had been minding his own business: catching up on paper work, sipping shitty coffee and longing for his late morning cigarette when the mail was handed out. He had given Brittany a quick wink and received a bright smile in return.

He almost missed it at first: the _Bonjour de Paris_ and the picture of the Eiffel Tower, wedged in between two larger envelopes. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. He told himself that his fingers did not tremble when he turned it over in his hands and his eyes skimmed over the cursive handwriting.

_Mon amour,_

_This hotel room is boring. Let's have dinner._

He drank in the sight of those words, printed them into his memory, all in a matter of breathless seconds. There was no signature, but Puck did not need one to identify the sender. He would recognize that cursive handwriting anywhere.

"Britt!" he called after the woman, who had not made it very far, only a few desks away. She turned her head when he got out of his seat, as well as many others, with a slightly startled look. "I need a seat on the next flight to Paris."

"Okay, Puck," she replied without any questions asked and continued handing out the mail to the rest of the staff, who looked at him curiously as he marched past her towards the office on the other end of the floor.

There was no time for manners or the typical caution that always came naturally whenever anyone went near Section Chief Sylvester's office. He merely knocked briefly before pushing the door open. He could not even revel in the sudden surprise (soon clouded over by annoyance) written across her face.

"Puckerman, what the-"

"Boss, I just got this in the mail," he breathed out, excitement poorly hidden as he handed over the postcard.

Still with an annoyed crease between her eyebrows, she snatched it from his hands. Her stern, calculating eyes narrowed as they studied the card swiftly. Her features remained unmoved. Puck was holding his breath until she placed it on the desk between them. Puck's fingers itched to grab it, but he forced them to stay still.

"Agent Puckerman," she said slowly, interlacing her fingers. "Are you absolutely sure that the postcard you received is from the person you claim sent it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

He could not be more sure. Puck could feel _his_ presence through that postcard as vividly as if _he_ were standing right next to him. With his hands on its clean cut edges, he could feel soft skin beneath his fingertips.

"This has been going on for far too long, Puckerman."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Go to Paris and finish this."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Get out of my sight and take that atrocious thing with you."

"Yes, ma'am."

Puck took the postcard and told himself not to walk too fast.

**WEDNESDAY APRIL 18, 2007**

The first time he met Kurt Hummel, Puck had not even been aware of the fact that he had been so close to one of the most wanted criminals during that time. Well, who could really blame him; none of the agents really expected the famous con artist to show up just three blocks away from headquarters, having lunch like any other person in a restaurant Puck frequently visited.

Puck had ordered the usual: cheeseburger and fries with salad on the side which he could ignore without feeling guilty about it. While waiting for it he let his eyes scan the room, like he always did. The young man, whom he later would know as Kurt Hummel, sat daintily three tables away, looking more than mildly disinterested in his male company, which seemingly would not stop talking. Still, he maintained a polite smile and would occasionally offer short and half-hearted inputs on the subject discussed.

He was beautiful. Puck let his eyes wander to him (to his hands, his eyes, his hair, his lips, his waist and his legs, ankles crossed) during more than one occasion while waiting.

"Your order, agent Puckerman."

The waitress, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, smiled towards him when she placed his plate in front of him.

"Thank you, Sugar," he replied, grinning back and received a wink in return.

He picked some fries off the plate to shovel into his mouth and looked absently towards the table again... just to stare straight into a pair of bright blue eyes.

A half-questioning, half-amused eyebrow was raised towards him, a smile threatening in the corners of his mouth. Puck swallowed down his fries and managed an eyebrow raise of his own.

The man's pink tongue darted out briefly to stroke over his rosy lips, leaving them slightly parted. Puck blinked, a tingling sensation running down his spine, his fingers reaching for a couple of new fries. When he opened his mouth for them, he earned himself a disapproving glance. In confusion, he mimed a 'what?'. The man looked at him pointedly and then down at his hands. His slender fingers were almost tenderly caressing his fork.

Puck could barely disguise his snort, but to play along, he dropped his fries upon the plate again and reached for his fork. He received a small nod and an approving smile before he returned to his lunch.

By the time he looked up again, the man and his company had already left.

**WEDNESDAY JULY 6, 2011**

"Well, well, well... Who do we have here?"

Puck looked up from where he was sitting to see long legs, slim waist, a pair of boobs he was acquainted with along with dark hair in a strict pony-tail and mischievous eyes.

"Lopez," he said flatly, not moving an inch when she sat down in the seat next to him and buckled up.

"Puckerman," she purred with a devilish smile.

"What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?"

"Boss told you to spy on me?"

"She wanted to make sure you didn't fuck up this time around."

"I won't."

She snorted.

"Sure."

Puck bit down hard on every angry retort trying to claw its way out of his throat, knowing that nothing he could say would make this situation any better. He simply closed his eyes, leaned back in his seat and thought of the postcard safely hidden in the inner pocket of his coat, resting over his heart.

_"... and we hope you have a pleasant flight."_

**SUNDAY FEBRUARY 17, 2008**

Puck studied the man on the other side of the glass. He was seemingly unaffected by the almost claustrophobic interrogation room. He was sitting, legs crossed, on his designated chair. Quietly, but somehow not obedient in the least while he hummed a soft melody under his breath.

"You up for this, Puckerman?" Sylvester said next to him and he nodded shortly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then go on in. It's time."

Puck nodded once more, took his file and unlocked the door to the interrogation room. He stepped inside without a word, very much aware of the calculating, bright eyes assessing his every move, as he walked over to the table, pulled out his chair and sat down opposite him.

"Mr Hummel, my name is Agent Puckerman and I-"

"We've met before," Hummel interrupted in a gentle tone. "Do you remember?"

"Mr Hummel, that is irrelevant, however-"

"It was just down the street. You were buying lunch. Do you remember?"

"Mr Hummel, I must ask you to-"

"Do you remember?"

Puck faltered slightly and met Hummel's eyes.

"Yes," he finally conceded. "Yes, I do."

"Good," Hummel replied. "I would be devastated if I had left such a fleeting and insignificant impression on you."

"Uhm, yes... Now, Mr Hummel-"

"Oh, please don't call me that, it makes me sound old... It's Kurt. Or... what is it that you people call me? Porcelain? Very clever. Did you come up with that?"

"No, Mr Hummel, I didn't."

"Kurt," he insisted. "Do you like it? _Operation Porcelain..._ It has a nice ring to it, does it not?"

"It works."

"So you don't like it."

"I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did. Why don't you like it?"

"That's irrelevant."

"Not for me. Now, why don't you like it?"

Puck's eyes fluttered briefly towards the mirror glass, not really knowing if Sylvester still stood there. He did not really want an audience while Hummel ran right over him.

"It's ridiculous," he confessed.

"Why is that?"

Hummel watched him with such intensity, his interest clearly visible in his eyes, which were the only things burning through his cold exterior.

"Because you're nothing like porcelain. You don't break that easily."

There was a moment of surprise written across Hummel's face. He had not expected that reply. Then a smile spread across his angelic features, and the innocence of it was bordering on unsettling.

"Oh, I have a feeling that this is just the beginning of a highly exciting relationship, Agent Puckerman."

**WEDNESDAY JULY 6, 2011**

The hotel room reserved for him was nothing to brag about. Small and dingy with a stunning view of a red brick wall. The sheets had seen better days, but Puck was not picky about those sorts of things. As long as he could sleep on it, he would be fine.

He dumped his bag on the bed, dropped down next to it and let out a deep sigh. He felt tired and worn out after the flight, after Lopez's snide remarks and her constant interrogations about _how_ he was going to find him anyway.

Thing is, Puck was not going to find him. When Kurt Hummel decided that he did not want to be found, he might as well have disappeared from the face of the earth. No, Puck was just going to have to wait for Hummel to find him.

Puck pulled a hand over his face and loosened his tie as he got to his feet again. He had to take a leak.

A small window was open in the tiny bathroom, letting in a gentle spring breeze. He swung it shut before going about his business.

He did not notice the blue post-it note until he had his hands beneath the cold water in the sink. It stood out so clearly where it was stuck on the mirror, he could not believe that he had missed it.

The cursive handwriting was the same as on the postcard, still secured in his inner coat pocket.

_Mon amour, this quaint little place has been rigged. Get out._

Hummel had done nothing to earn Puck's trust. Quite the opposite; Puck had every reason _not_ to trust anything he said. He was a criminal. Nothing more than a criminal that was practically impossible to find.

However, when it came down to it, Puck would trust him with his life.

He pulled the post-it from the mirror and pocketed it next to the postcard, while he quickly assessed the situation.

The bathroom window was too small; he would not be able to squeeze through it. He crossed the bedroom to look through the window facing the brick wall. A fire escape ladder offered him the opportunity he needed. Without hesitation, he doubled back to fetch his duffel bag from the bed, pulled it over his head and then pressed the window opened.

If Hummel was right, he had little to no time to get the fuck out of there before Lopez and her squad realized that he was making a run for it.

He was out the window and hurrying down the ladder in a matter of seconds.

**SUNDAY FEBRUARY 17, 2008**

"So..."

Puck looked over at Hummel; his regal posture, jutted out chin and cuffed wrists as he stood beside him in the elevator.

"... have your table manners improved at all during the time we spent apart?"

That was certainly not the conversation he had expected. The guy was under arrest, facing a multitude of hearings and interrogations and most likely a court date would be set up not long after that. A fierce insult would have put Puck more at ease.

"Nope," he replied, popping the 'p' and offering the criminal a rather smug grin.

This had been his first big gig, his first huge case and dammit, he was kicking some sweet ass. Kurt Hummel. He had caught Kurt fucking Hummel.

"Neanderthal," Hummel drawled, rolling his eyes while the elevator was slowing down while nearing the right floor.

"That's the best you've got?"

"Nope."

Puck had to bite down on his lower lip to hide his amusement. Say what you want about Kurt Hummel, but he was a funny dude.

Suddenly there was a loud, uncharacteristic noise, almost like a screech and the elevator came to an unplanned (and rather unpleasant) halt.

"What the...?"

"Seems like we're stuck."

"Uh, yeah."

Annoyance growing in the pit of his stomach, Puck pressed past Hummel to push the emergency button several times.

"Just my luck," he muttered under his breath and heard a humming agreement next to him.

"Relax, agent," Hummel said. "I'm sure this department is full of competent and quick minded individuals that will get us out of here in no time."

Puck could not determine if he was sarcastic or not. He pushed the button again, just for good measure, staring at the control panel as if it somehow would make things work again. It didn't.

"Well, this is tedious."

"I thought you were the one telling me to relax."

"Relax, yes, but relaxation does not prevent boredom."

Puck turned around to level him with an unimpressed glare. Amusement glittered in Hummel's eyes, his lips stretched out in a small, mysterious smile. Like he knew something Puck did not. He did not doubt that for a second.

"What are you so smug about?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just that your obvious attraction to me is rather adorable."

"Excuse me?" He spluttered.

Hummel simply smiled sweetly and took a step closer and another one after that.

"There's a question you've been dying to ask me since we left the interrogation room, isn't it?"

"What the fuck are you on about?"

"Isn't it?" He pressed, literally; his body, up against his, all long, perfect lines and sharp angles. His hands entrapped between their chests.

Puck swallowed hard.

"Who was the man in the restaurant? The one you had lunch with."

"Jealous?"

His fingers brushed over his suit, grazing straight over his pierced nipple.

"Hell no," he got out unconvincingly.

"Nice try, but don't you worry," Hummel smirked, his eyes so large, so fascinating and seemingly without bottom. "It was simply my brother. I'm unattached, just like..." perfect red lips "you."

It all happened very quickly after that. The only warning he got was a small 'click'. Puck grabbed a hold of Kurt's suddenly freed wrist, the hand that had taken a hold of Puck's gun, but that earned him a sharp knee to the gut. All air was forced out of his lungs and temporarily disoriented, his grip slackened and he fell back against the wall, clutching his stomach.

Hummel towered over him, his weapon aimed at his heart.

"I'm sorry, agent, but I can't let you have me quite yet," he said.

As if on cue (and it probably was, he realized much later), the elevator started moving again, its doors parting. Their eyes met one final time, a short moment of charged electricity between them, before Hummel marched out of the elevator, out of the department and then left the building without having to fire a single shot.

**WEDNESDAY JULY 6, 2011**

There was a jump between the last step on the ladder and the street below him. Pain radiated through his feet and knees upon landing, but it was nothing that he could not ignore.

He kept moving. The streets of Paris were unknown to him and he had yet to come up with a plan to get himself out of the sticky situation he without doubt had put himself in. He had walked right into it, hadn't he? They did not trust him with this case and he had just proven them right. Puck cursed under his breath and turned another corner.

_Fucking_ Hummel. Fucking Hummel with his fucking postcards, his fucking French, his fucking words, and his fucking way of having Puck wrapped around his fucking pinky.

He should turn back. He should get back to the hotel and pretend like he had just gone out to get something to eat. Lopez would probably suspect something, but would not be able to prove anything if she had not seen the post-it.

Puck was just about to turn on his heels and walk straight back when a small body collided into his. The boy was too small to sway him, but almost toppled over himself. Puck caught him by the shoulders before he crashed down upon the asphalt.

"You okay, kid?"

The boy looked up at him with wide, dark eyes.

"Américain?"

"Uuhm... sí?"

The boy shrugged out of his grasp and pulled something out of his pocket. He pressed it into Puck's palm, nodded once and then continued down the street before Puck had a chance to stop him.

Puck opened his hand to see a small, crumpled up blue note. With a quick scan around him, he unraveled it quickly.

_Mon amour, how about skipping dinner and going straight for dessert?_

**THURSDAY DECEMBER 25, 2008**

Snowflakes danced through the air outside the window, millions of glistening shards of ice crystals decorating the sky and streets. The city was alight with Christmas ornaments, mid-celebration of the holidays.

Puck sighed and leaned back in his chair. The department rested in darkness, except for the small lamp upon his desk. The clock said 09:38 pm when the phone rang, breaking the silence.

Startled, yet disinterested, he searched through the heaps of papers on his desk for his cellphone. The number was unknown and he frowned in confusion as he pressed it to his ear. Who called him on Christmas?

"Puckerman," he said, his voice low and gruff from hours hovering over his desk.

_"Merry Christmas, agent Puckerman."_

Puck sat upright so quickly he swore he heard something crack in his back.

"Mr Hummel!"

_"I told you to call me Kurt, didn't I?"_

"Mr Hummel, you do understand that calling you that wouldn't be appropriate...?"

_"But you're alone, are you not? Still sitting at the office?"_

"How do you-"

_"Don't bother looking around you. I'm not there. You're alone, I'm alone... No one will know if you call me by my name. It can be our little secret... Noah."_

Puck closed his eyes at the sound of his name leaving Hummel's rosy lips, almost whispered to him. It sounded like a part of a sweet melody, like music.

"Kurt."

_"That's better."_

"How did you know where I was?"

_"Oh, I have my ways. None of which I'll tell you, because that would be so very inconvenient of me. Now, tell me, why are you alone on Christmas?"_

"I don't celebrate Christmas."

_"Is that so?"_

"I'm Jewish. Christmas isn't really my thing."

_"Ah. A believer?"_

"Occasionally. Kind of depressing world otherwise, yeah?"

_"I suppose so,"_ Hummel replied airily, almost absently.

"Why are _you_ alone on Christmas?"

There was a half-amused, half-bitter sort of laughter coming through the phone.

_"My chosen career does not exactly allow jolly family holidays."_

Puck had always thought of criminals as bad people. It was very black and white, no shades of grey. If you were a criminal, you were a despicable excuse of a person; unable to understand and feel the entire realm of the most basic human emotions, because everything is controlled by greed and hate. It had not been difficult to stick to that thought, to that way of thinking… Until he met Kurt Hummel. Because Kurt Hummel was a criminal, but Puck could not, no matter how hard he tried, label him as a bad person.

"You're lonely," he said, not a question, but a statement, a fact because that was what it was.

_"Bravo, agent. Such brilliant deduction."_

There was a coldness to his voice, a shield immediately put up around him and his words, to protect him from harm.

_"I'll let you get back to your paper work..."_

"No, wait!"

_"... so goodbye, agent Puckerman."_

"Don't!"

But it was too late. The call had already been disconnected.

**WEDNESDAY JULY 6, 2011**

What the fuck did that even mean? Skip dinner, head straight for dessert? Without even really realizing it, he started moving again, away from the hotel with a new goal in sight.

If he knew Hummel right, it would be some sort of code for something, a new clue, something to lead Puck in the right direction without risking Hummel getting caught by unwanted visitors (read: Lopez).

He frowned down upon the blue note once more. The fuck, Hummel.

Then it appeared before him. He nearly laughed at the simplicity of it all when he stood face to face with a large sign reading _Dessert_ in bold letters in front of a café.

Hummel was being kind to him, Puck thought to himself when pushing through the door to the café. He must know that Puck was off his game after the months the case had laid resting.

His eyes immediately scanned the café inside, lingering over half disguised faces and shadowy corners. A dark-skinned woman was circulating the room, serving tea and coffee to the customers. She was the only one who looked up to meet his eyes.

"Can I get you anything, hot stuff?"

"You speak English?" He blurted out, not even regretting the relief in his voice when he heard her obvious American accent.

"You bet your sweet ass I do," she grinned and sashayed over to him, motioning him towards the counter. "Fellow American, right?"

"Yeah..."

"You're gonna order anything?"

"No, I'm actually looking for someone."

She raised her eyebrows skeptically.

"Maybe you could help me?" He continued, putting on an award-worthy smile of his own.

"Maybe I can. Who are you looking for?"

"Have you heard of a man called Kurt Hummel? He might have chosen a different last name, for example Minelli, Streisand, Garland or Chenoweth."

"I… might have," she replied slowly. "It depends on who's asking."

"Noah. Noah's asking."

She scrunched up her nose and shrugged.

"No, that doesn't ring a bell."

Puck's fingers tightened around the counter's edge. She obviously knew where he was, or at least where to look next, but would not give up the information if he did not get her the right name.

"Dessert?" He tried.

"You want to buy some?"

Okay, so that wasn't it. Come on, Puck, think for fuck's sake! It would be something personal, something that would appear naturally in their conversations, it might not even distinguish itself and-. Oh.

"He calls me _mon amour_," he said, almost hesitantly.

Her eyebrows sunk down to normal height again and she opened a drawer behind the counter to pull something out of it. She took his hand forcibly and pressed the item into his hand. Cold metal, laminated paper.

"You better watch your back, boy, because if you put him in any danger, I _will_ cut you."

Then she smiled sweetly, took her tea and coffee pots and began circulating the room again.

He opened his hand. A key. A key with a small note attached to it. Written on it was the name of a hotel: _Nouvelles Directions_. He was sure that he had passed it at some point. The number 7 was written directly below it.

He threw a glance over his shoulder to see if the woman expected some sort of reaction to him, but she was assisting a customer and seemingly not interested in him any longer.

Placing the key in his inner pocket, he walked briskly out of the café and pulled out his phone in search of a map that could take him to the hotel. He had merely taken two steps out on the street when he spotted a familiar pony-tail in the crowd.

"Fuck."

Careful not to bring attention to himself, he started walking, following the stream away from Lopez. He knew that it would only be a matter of minutes before she had spotted him and then... then what?

He could make a run for it. Or he could stick to his original excuse: that he was just out to get something to eat. He had been inside of a café, it was believable... but she would without doubt search him and he had no valid reason to deny her that. Then she would find the notes. And the key. Then he would be fucked and not in the good, orgasmic way.

The oddness of the situation struck him again. Lopez was on _his_ side, right? Sylvester just wanted to make sure that things went smoothly this time around, it was not like they were out to _get_ him or anything... He should be able to turn around, greet her and show her the key, tell her that he had found Hummel.

But then what? Then she would want to come with him to the hotel, bring her agents with her and seize Hummel.

Puck just could not have that. He wondered when this had become less about the actual arrest and more about _seeing_ the criminal.

"Puckerman! Wait up!"

Puck did not think. He just ran.

**WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 31, 2008**

Sometimes Puck thought that Hummel was playing with him. Sometimes he was sure of it. It was like a never ending game of tag, a catch me if you can kind of thing and Puck would be _right there_, so close, his fingertips nearly grasping the hem of his coat before Hummel danced, seemingly effortless, away from his outstretched hands.

He would tease him and play with him and sometimes even let himself get caught. Not that it ever meant that he surrendered.

New Year's Eve was often a quiet affair for Puck. He was not the party guy he had used to be in his teens, but actually rather dull. He preferred the silence and solitude of his empty apartment to the loud and often rather eccentric crowd currently occupying agent Chang's household.

Puck had met Mike during training and he was a cool dude, so they had kept in touch, even when parted for different departments. Puck figured that it was rude to turn him down when he was invited to the New Year's Eve party organized by his fiancée Tina.

So he went, being fairly polite and everything. Grabbed a few beers, talked to some people; some of them were agents too, like Artie Abrams the tech guy who offered him an awkward fist bump when he rolled past. The food was some kind of weird sushi-vegan-whatever shit that he barely touched, but seemed to be popular with the crowd. He just wanted to be back home with a nice burger.

People started to pair up around ten minutes to midnight. The TV was on in a corner, put on mute for the moment. Puck found himself gravitating towards the walls. The thought of locking lips with some random stranger lacked its usual allure. He supposed that it would be good for him, that it might get his mind off things…

"Ten!"

He just did not want to.

"Nine!"

Mike had his arms wrapped around a smiling Tina, nudging his nose against her to make her laugh. It was equal parts endearing and sickening.

"Eight! Seven! Six!"

There was a movement to his right, someone quietly pushing through the crowd, but he did not pay it any attention.

"Five! Four! Three!"

Fingers, cold from the weather outside, brushed over his knuckles briefly.

"Two!"

Kurt Hummel's eyes were impossibly blue and so close, his hand firm on the back of his neck.

"One..." he whispered against his lips.

As the world exploded around them, Puck wrapped his arms around his slim waist, the purple fabric of his shirt creasing between the tight grip of his fingers. Kurt kissed him like he had waited for too long for it, like he felt the same indescribable yearning like Puck did. Puck's lips were burning, his body trembling with a sudden rush of adrenaline and Kurt held onto him tighter, his body pressed to Puck's. He held onto him like he never wanted to let go.

"You were right," he murmured, his eyes closed, his breath warm on Puck's lips. "I am lonely."

His forehead was pressed against Puck's, his hair so soft beneath Puck's hand.

"So am I," Puck admitted and he felt it clearly when he spoke the words out loud. He was so lonely.

"Don't stop looking for me," Kurt begged before he tore himself from Puck's grip and left him behind once more.

**WEDNESDAY JULY 6, 2011**

Lopez was a quick and strategic runner. Puck knew this from experience and knew that he needed to get out of her sight to lose her - she would not give up the race otherwise.

He heard shouting and yelling behind his back, but did not look over his shoulder as he zigzagged through the bewildered crowd, pushing pedestrians out of the way and ignoring their French curses.

His heart was racing along with the rapid beat of his footsteps, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he did not hear the shouting anymore, maybe he had outrun her, maybe he could throw a glance backwards...

It happened so fast that he had not time to react before it was too late. When turning a corner, large strong hands had reached out for him, grabbed his arm tightly and pulled. He crashed into a broad chest and one of those hands clamped over his mouth. Survival instinct kicked in automatically and he pulled, kicked and hit, but to no avail.

"Dude, just stop _wriggling_ before they see us, alright?" A voice spoke close to his ear and he thought that he had heard that voice before, a long time ago, but his memory was foggy.

The yelling was heard again then and Puck found himself following orders, staying completely still as the agents passed in a rush. His captor exhaled in relief.

"Fuck, that was close," the man said, his grin audible. "Okay, if I let you go, you won't run alright? Kurt wouldn't like that."

Kurt. _Hummel,_ he corrected himself. This man knew Hummel. Puck slowly shook his head.

"Good."

The strong hands slowly let go of him and he immediately swirled around, staring right into the chest he had been pressed against. Surprised he raised his gaze to meet a sort of dopey smile and kind brown eyes. Not exactly what he had expected.

"Finn Hudson?"

"Could be," the guy replied. "If I told you I'd have to kill you."

"Seriously?" Puck raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Naah, but I've always wanted to say that."

Hudson threw an arm over his shoulders and forcibly escorted him down a smaller side street he had not even noticed before.

"The hotel's down this way," Hudson explained. "You better hurry or he'll be pissed."

Puck nodded and why hadn't his heart calmed down yet? It just picked up speed when he stood in front of the doors of the hotel.

**MONDAY MARCH 23, 2009**

Kurt Hummel had never killed anyone. At least according to the case file. Of course, there might be someone they missed, killings so cleverly hidden, bodies that were never found.

Puck was skeptic towards that theory. They might have missed something, several somethings even, but none of them would have been a killing. He was not even sure of if Kurt Hummel was capable of killing. He did not think so.

Though, it was not until Puck was in the middle of it all that he understood what Kurt Hummel was truly capable of.

The department had gotten a last minute tip from an anonymous caller regarding the whereabouts of a certain con artist. Puck had gotten a team assembled swiftly and driven to the location. It was after that point that everything had gone terribly wrong.

Apparently he was not the only one after Kurt Hummel and those men's intentions had seemed far less honorable than the ones of the extended hands of the law.

His team became scattered all over the building in the confusion and panic when it started raining bullets. It was a killed or get killed moment and he could barely hear his surroundings over his loudly beating heart and the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

Through silent and calculated progression, he brought himself to the third floor, where he had been told that Hummel resided. The silence and the _want_ made him careless and in a moment of distraction, he lost all control.

When passing an open doorway, he got struck by something hard over the back of his head. Disoriented he fell forwards on his knees, the gun slipping from his hand and by the time the second hit came down upon him. He got a brief glimpse of the man as autopilot kicked in and he thought he got in at least a few good hits, but later his memory of it would be fuzzy and unclear. The only thing he remembered clearly, as he fought for his life, was the gunshot that rang out and the silence that followed.

For a brief, flickering second he had thought that the assailant had shot him. He had noticed the man's weapon and he tried to feel _where_ he had been shot, but he could not feel anything. That was when the man sagged and fell down, missing him by a mere inch.

Kurt Hummel still had his gun raised. Later forensics would prove that it was the gun Hummel had taken from him that day in the elevator. He stood very still, cold eyes set upon the dead man next to Puck and nothing in his exterior told Puck anything about his inner turmoil except for his heavy and rapid breathing.

Hummel's eyes shifted to him then, the ice melting away to show something confusing and unmentionable, and he lowered his arm. The hand holding the gun was trembling. Hummel swallowed hard, turned and walked away. Puck did not follow, but let him go.

**WEDNESDAY JULY 6, 2011**

Puck faked confidence in his large strides through the hotel lobby. He nodded towards the receptionist as if he knew her and received a polite smile in return, but it did nothing to soothe his nerves.

It was not difficult to find room number seven. The corridor was, except for him, completely deserted and therefore he could hear the soft melody coming from the other side of the door, a song he did not know, but a voice he had thought of far too many times.

Get it the fuck together, Puck. It is just a case. A job.

So he fished the key out of his pocket, pressed it into the lock and turned it around. The melody faltered with the click coming from the door. He pushed it open, stepped inside and closed it around him.

He could not hear his own mind over the sound of his beating heart.

_He_ stood there, a few feet away with his hip cocked out to the side. A wine glass balanced between his slender fingers, half-full with deep red liquid. The right corner of his plump lips twitched before a smile overcame his face, dimples appearing on his cheeks when Puck leveled his Glock 17 with his piercing blue-green eyes.

"Mr Hummel," Puck said stiffly, his voice not really his own, his skin tingling with a lively mix of emotions he could not quite name.

"Noah, mon amour," Kurt Hummel purred softly. "How wonderful it is to see you."

**FRIDAY MAY 15, 2009**

Puck would never forget the late night he came home and found Kurt Hummel absently reading the newspaper on his bed. His bed, which had been an unmade mess when he left that morning. Therefore, the first thing out of his mouth was;

"Have you changed my sheets?"

"Well hello, Noah Puckerman," Hummel replied, his eyes not even wavering from the black and white pages. "This truly is a quaint little place you've got."

His silky sweet voice was heavy with sarcasm. Puck got the picture when he threw a brief look around him: the dirty clothes strewn across the floor, the old take out food containers...

"Really, Hummel? You want to add breaking and entering of an agent's apartment to the list too?"

"_Kurt._ Don't be silly, dear. You wouldn't do that."

"And why is that?"

Hummel looked up then, closing the newspaper and folding it neatly as he rolled over on his back, propped up on his elbows. His long legs crossed by the ankles.

"You wouldn't," he simply said and Puck knew instantly that it was true. He wouldn't.

He stepped around the bed to drop his suit jacket over the armchair in the corner, loosening his tie as he went.

"What are you doing here? Unless you want me to arrest you..."

"Dream on, darling."

"... I see no other reason for you to be here."

Hummel sighed. The top buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, exposing an inch of perfect, unmarred skin.

"I'm tired."

"Of running?"

"Of not being able to sleep."

"And what the fuck am I gonna do about that?"

"Language, Noah."

They looked at each other then: Puck annoyed but defeated, Hummel tired but victorious.

"Let me stay the night. I'll be gone before you wake."

"How about you stay and I bring you in tomorrow morning?"

"Not a chance," Hummel smiled as he got off the bed, his fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt again.

He started to undress in front of him, discarding one item after another. Puck followed suite: his skin suddenly too warm, his breathing too loud, his heart too fast.

The fresh sheets were cool and smelled of detergent. He wondered when was the last time he had changed the sheets, since the scent seemed so foreign to him.

Hummel wore only underwear to bed. His body was warm against Puck's, his being molding perfectly into his as his arm came to rest over Puck's waist. Puck burned wherever he touched.

"Let's pretend. Just for tonight," Hummel whispered and closed his eyes.

Let's pretend. Puck nodded stiffly and put an arm around Kurt too.

**WEDNESDAY JULY 6, 2011**

He wore a navy blue silk robe. Judging by the movement of the fabric and the lack of visible lines, he wore nothing else. Puck tore his eyes away from his exposed legs, but judging from the look he was given, it did not pass Hummel by unnoticed.

"Kurt Hummel," Puck cleared his throat. "You're under arrest for..."

"Oh, Noah, don't be so _boring!"_ Hummel interrupted. "And put that silly thing away, you know I don't like guns."

Puck did not lower his weapon. Hummel rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. He took a sip from his wine glass, placed it on the small hall table and then turned on his heel. Puck did _not_ notice how his hips swayed when he started walking into the adjacent room.

"Don't. Move," Puck called out hoarsely.

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" Hummel called over his shoulder as he disappeared out of sight.

"Yeah, maybe I will!" Puck replied heatedly as he stalked after him into the room, the bedroom, and almost walked directly into him when he swirled around.

"You wouldn't dare," Hummel hissed venomously, his eyes burning.

"You don't think I will?" Puck pressed the muzzle of the gun against Hummel's heaving chest.

"You've had your chances before, but you've never taken the shot," he said, chin held high. "I _know_ you won't."

Puck stared back into those eyes and tried to make sense of his thoughts, tried to not stand too close to him, tried to _do his fucking job,_ but it was all futile.

He lowered the weapon slowly, let it drag over the robe until it reached the loosely tied belt. It only took a small tug with the barrel for it to come undone. Hummel inhaled sharply when he felt the cold metal against his exposed abdomen.

Hummel was aroused. His erection twitched when Puck stroked his milky white thighs with the gun, his breaths short and trembling against Puck's cheek.

"I told you," he whispered quietly. "To put it away."

The Glock clattered to the floor immediately. Puck's hands were unsteady when they came to embrace Hummel's neck, his pale skin smooth beneath his fingertips.

"Kurt," he breathed and years of fighting, of tension, of stress and worry drained from his body.

Kurt let out a breath and took a hold of the lapels of his coat. His nose brushed gently against Puck's.

"Noah," he sighed with his eyelids fluttering shut.

Puck pressed his lips to his and let go.

**SATURDAY MAY 16, 2009**

It was in the middle of the night when he woke up to the feeling of light fingertips dragging themselves over his exposed abdomen. His eyelids were heavy when he forced them open. The city night lights illuminated Kurt's pale cheek and shoulder, everything not hidden by the thick duvet. His eyes rested in shadows. His breathing was shallow and barely there at all.

Puck sighed and extracted his hand from beneath the sheets, his fingers delving deep into Kurt's hair.

"What's wrong?" He murmured, his nose searching out his in the dark, his lips grazing past his.

"I can't sleep," Kurt replied, his voice so thin and tight, barely recognizable. Like a small, lost child.

"Have you tried counting sheep?"

That got him a startled little giggle, accompanied with a sniffle.

"No, I haven't," Kurt admitted, his fingers drawing circles on Puck's hip, leaving goose bumps in their trail.

"Maybe you should try that then?"

"Yes."

Puck did not know how much time passed before Kurt's body began to tremble, before warm tears fell down upon his shoulder. Kurt was quiet and the only audible sign of him actually crying was the shivering breaths caressing Puck's throat. Puck's thumb stroked over Kurt's wet cheek and later he would replace it with his lips, his arms wrapped around him and his hands exploring every inch of him, but for now, he merely held him and whispered:

"It's okay."

**WEDNESDAY JULY 6, 2011**

The robe slipped easily from Kurt's shoulders, as gracefully as he laid down upon the bed, as gently as his fingers formed around Puck's tie and pulled him down over him, between his spread legs.

Kurt kissed him while Puck's fingers, suddenly clumsy, tried to work his shirt open; small, barely there kisses that made his skin burn with desire.

They both tore at his clothes to remove them, almost childishly impatient with both each other and the garments they struggled with. Puck nearly slipped off the bed at one point, which earned him another eye roll and a snort, but it was quickly forgotten when he pressed their lips together once more.

The last piece of clothing Kurt threw away across the room was the tie, his own hand replacing the pressure on the back of Puck's neck. He leaned up slightly to bring his mouth to his ear.

"I've opened myself up for you," he whispered hotly, his tongue ghosting over Puck's earlobe.

A tremble rushed through his body and he pressed himself closer, images of Kurt preparing himself for him invading his already lust filled mind.

Puck looked into his eyes when he entered him, watched them cloud over with desire and pleasure before they fell shut. Kurt wrapped his legs around Puck's hips and moved until he was completely within him.

Puck swallowed hard and rolled his hips tentatively. Kurt clenched around him, the tightness almost unbearable, but _oh so good_ and when Puck pressed into him again, he was rewarded with a soft gasp from Kurt's parted lips.

They lost track of time, bringing each other constantly to the edge before pulling back, over and over, Kurt murmuring affectionate French phrases under his breath, into Puck's mouth, against his neck and into his ear. _Noah, mon amour, je t'aime, Noah._ Puck replied with curses in a voice filled with fondness, a string of _Fuck, Kurt, god, yes, fuck_ until they both came.

They were breathing harshly against each other, shaking from their orgasms. Puck had yet to slip out of Kurt's body. He stroked a couple of brown strands from Kurt's forehead and offered a weak smile. Kurt looked as if he was fighting a smile of his own. His dimples betrayed him.

"Finally!" he exclaimed, throwing out his arms in a dramatic gesture and then neither one of them could withhold their laughter any longer.

**SATURDAY MAY 16, 2009**

His bed was empty when he woke up the following morning. Puck told himself that he was not surprised, that he was not hurt. He had suspected and known that Kurt would be gone by the morning, but he had maybe hoped that he would stay... just for a little while.

Puck rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and sat up stiffly. Colors danced briefly in front of him before he managed to focus on his surroundings. He blinked in confusion. Kurt's clothes were still there, spread on the floor where he had left them the night before when he undressed.

He got out of bed, not even bothering with such trivial things as modesty and covering himself up, but pushed the bedroom door open in the nude. He was met with the thick smell of warm food, awakening his stomach and it gave away a roar of hunger. When he turned around the corner to the kitchen, following the soft humming of cheerful tones, his body felt another hunger altogether.

Kurt had his back to him. He was swaying slightly in place to a tune only he could hear: headphones in while he monitored the waffle iron.

He wore nothing but the shirt Puck wore the night before. His slim, exposed legs seemed to go on forever, his feet naked and his firm butt peeking out beneath the hem of the shirt. Puck simply could not help it, the itching in his hands and how they were not satisfied until they formed around those perfectly shaped globes and _squeezed_.

Kurt tensed, but the air went out of him quickly when Puck pressed his lips against his neck, his eyes closed and just breathing him in.

"Hungry?" Kurt asked, a smile in his voice.

Puck let his arms enclose him, holding him tight as he rubbed his already hard erection between Kurt's cheeks.

"Starving," he grinned and his heart skipped a beat when Kurt laughed.

**THURSDAY JULY 7, 2011**

He woke up to complete silence. He could no longer hear or feel Kurt's peaceful breaths caressing his neck, his arm over his chest or his long, slender legs entangled with his.

Puck sat up with a start, a sudden sharp pain shooting through his arms. Shocked, he slumped back on the bed. It took him about three seconds to figure out that he was handcuffed to the headboard.

"Kurt!" He called out hoarsely, his eyes scanning the bedroom.

"Oh, you're up," came a too innocent voice from the door opening.

Kurt was freshly showered and dressed, his hair as immaculate as ever and his feet covered in the high boots he was so fond of.

"I just got a call from Finn," he continued. "Apparently your little friends have discovered my location. I need to get moving."

Puck tugged at the handcuffs and gave him a pointed look.

"Those are just a precaution. I have the means to get myself out of here unnoticed. You don't."

"The fuck?"

Kurt tilted his head slightly to the side and walked across the room: long, languid steps. He crawled on top of the bedspreads and straddled Puck's hips. His hands were warm and gentle against his cheeks.

"Oh, mon amour," he whispered sweetly. "I'll be in touch."

He stole one last scorching kiss before Puck had time to react to his words and was off the bed in no time, already getting into his coat.

"Hummel, you can't fucking leave me here!"

Hummel did not reply. His goodbye was the slamming of the door. Puck cursed his name until Lopez and her gang found him, cuffed to the headboard in the nude.

**SATURDAY MAY 16, 2009**

Kurt lifted himself so easily off the floor and onto the kitchen table, his slender legs wrapping themselves around Puck's hips to pull him close. Puck stroked his thighs, his thumbs adding a bit of pressure against the firm muscles. He smiled as he dragged his lips over Kurt's exposed throat.

"You smell like waffles," he grinned and the skin beneath his lips vibrated when Kurt giggled.

"That might have something to do with the _breakfast_ I had prepared for you, which currently is getting cold," he admonished, but with no real heat.

"Waffles still taste awesome cold," Puck informed him, pushing his hands up beneath the white shirt.

Kurt laid down upon the flat, chilly surface of the wooden table and pulled Puck down over him with a firm tug on the back of his neck. He caught himself with his right elbow, his lower arm pressed against the table next to Kurt's head. Kurt's legs tightened around him and he rolled his hips upward, wetting his lips with his quick, rosy tongue.

Kurt was still open from the night before and Puck pressed inside with ease. He wanted to straighten up and improve the angle, but Kurt only held on tighter, his arms wrapped around him now, his lips reaching for his and there was something in his eyes, something that made Puck obey.

They made love for what felt like hours. Whenever Puck would come close to the brink, Kurt would squeeze his hip and force him to slow down again, as if he did not want it to end. Sweat adorned their skin and Puck's muscles ached from the strain. Kurt's hair was glued to his forehead, his cheeks a blossoming pink and his eyes, his eyes were so open, so honest and happy and oh so sad all at the same time.

Kurt did not scream when he reached climax. He merely let out a soft "oh", his lips staying parted while his body shivered from the overwhelming pleasure.

They disentangled stiffly, their bodies worn out and tired. They sat next to each other by the table later on, Kurt's thigh pressed to Puck's while he fed him cold waffles.

Kurt kissed him gently before Puck went to take a shower. He was gone when Puck came out of the bathroom.

**MONDAY JULY 11, 2011**

"Forensics found remnants of semen on the location where you were... discovered," Sylvester said and threw the case file across her desk towards him. "Two men. The first one being the notorious criminal Kurt Hummel, of whose investigation you've been in charge over for the last four years. The second one being you, agent Puckerman."

It was difficult to stand up straight before her, to not crumble and beg for forgiveness. The embarrassment, the humiliation he felt was visible in the rosy hue of his cheeks.

"Do you have anything to add?"

"No, ma'am."

"Very well. LOPEZ!"

The door opened immediately, as if Satan had been waiting outside for her cue. Puck would not be surprised if that was the case.

"Boss, you called," she said, approaching the desk with a pleased smirk firmly in place, distorting her otherwise beautiful features into something feral and dark.

"Yes. From now on, you're in charge of Operation: Porcelain. Surely your exclusive interest of lady bits will prevent you from copulating with Tickle Me Dough Face."

"Thank you, boss. I won't let you down."

"You better not, because I'm also setting you on the job of making sure that agent Think-with-my-wiener-man here won't get within a hundred feet of any field work. You're on desk duty, Puckerman, and you're staying there for as long as I'm in charge here."

"But-"

"No buts. You've had enough of those."

**SUNDAY MAY 17, 2009**

Puck sighed deeply and brought the cold beer bottle to his lips once more. The apartment rested in silent darkness. He recalled it being bright outside when he sat down, but the sun was gone now and the only light supplied was that from the street lamps outside. It reflected off the recently dried off kitchen table.

It was not like he truly expected him to come back, like he would waltz in after another day working, like _normal people_, because they were not normal people. They were messed up and broken in so many kinds of ways that Puck seriously doubted that they could get glued back together.

His eyes flickered briefly to the door, but it stayed unmoved and quiet. It was not like he wanted him to come back. Not like he wanted to be like normal people, even if it was possible. He did not want breakfast, him wearing his shirts or his smile brushing against his skin. He just wanted to do his job.

He was not waiting. He was just taking precaution.

**TUESDAY AUGUST 30, 2011**

Another large stack of papers were unceremoniously dumped upon his desk and Puck looked up to meet Lopez' way too pleased eyes.

"So, Gaylord," she smirked smugly and leaned far too close into his personal space.

"What's up, Satan?"

"How's desk life treating you?"

"Fucking amazing," he muttered, grabbing a file he could pretend to go through just to keep himself occupied.

"That's nice," she replied, obviously terribly amused by his fate. "Heard anything from loverboy that you gave up your entire career for yet? It's been like, what, two months? I mean, ouch... You _really_ got your ass dumped, didn't you?"

"Shut the fuck up, Lopez!"

Laughing loudly, not even attempting to cover it, she flipped him the finger and kept on walking, her stupid ponytail swinging back and forth. Frowning, he returned to his work, now even more annoyed than before. Though, it did not take long before he heard heels against the floor again. Tiredly he looked up once more.

"Mail for you, Puck," Brittany smiled sweetly and placed a small pile on top of all the endless stacks of paperwork he had to go through.

"Thanks, Britt," he sighed and took the envelopes, briefly letting his eyes rest on her retreating form.

He could not even appreciate her perfectly shaped ass anymore. Fuck.

He almost missed it at first; the _Ciao Roma_ and the picture of the Colosseum. He froze in his seat, staring at the postcard in his hands. No one but him sent him postcards.

Puck did not even want to read it. He needed to put Kurt Hummel behind him, forget that he had ever existed, that he had been a part of his life. He had stolen everything from him, his career, his... His career, yeah, and right now, that was all that fucking mattered.

Puck looked up over the sea of identical desks, all the people reading, writing and taking phone calls. He could not afford being wrapped up in Hummel again. This time around he would lose his job for real, not just get stuck behind a desk for the rest of eternity.

His eyes landed on the postcard in his hands again.

... he could just read it. Reading it could not hurt.

_Mio amore,_

_I am sorry for the sudden farewell. Let me make it up to you._

_Dinner, 08:30. Come alone this time._

Puck pulled a hand over his eyes and sighed. Oh well. There were worse places than Rome.

He paid for the flight ticket with his own money. It only seemed right, since he knew for a fact that he was now breaking the rules big time. This was not his case any longer. He had been ordered to forget all about Kurt Hummel and Operation Porcelain, he had _wanted_ to forget all about it, but he had been unable to do so.

So now Puck stood in the airport in Rome, his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. It was 8:27 and he did not know where to fuck to go, but he knew that he was supposed to have dinner with Kurt Hummel in three minutes.

There were no clues. There were no messages. He had checked his phone twenty two times in the last sixty seconds.

"Oh, fuck..."

There was only the briefest of warning, a familiar scent surrounding him before a soft hand closed over his eyes, leaving him in darkness, another one placed on his hip. His breath caught in his throat.

"I really am sorry," Kurt's melodic voice whispered, so close to him that his warm lips briefly caressed Puck's ear. "I had hoped that we could have had more time, that day."

His body was pressed from head to toe against Puck's back, his fingertips drawing circles against his side. Puck could lose himself there, in that moment. Kurt sighed against his neck, moist breath stroking his skin and then his forehead, suddenly heavy upon his shoulder.

"I got you into trouble," he continued softly. "It's what I do. Create trouble. But from now on... I don't want to create trouble for you anymore. I'd rather create trouble _with_ you."

There was a weak smile in Kurt's voice, reflected on Puck's face.

"Stay with me."

Puck sighed and leaned back into Kurt's embrace.

"Okay."

There was a moment of silence, before he could feel Kurt's smile on his skin.

"Good. Let's skip dinner and go straight for dessert."

**FRIDAY JULY 20, 2012**

Kurt pushed the door open and pulled the keys from the lock. He dropped his satchel by the hall table, where he also placed the keys in their bowl, next to the key chain with the tiny plastic shark attached to it. He unlaced his shoes carefully and hung up his coat before venturing further into the house.

He peeked into the kitchen, which was empty except for the dirty dishes from the morning, and continued through the living room and into the bedroom. The large glass slide doors to the garden where wide open, a soft summer's breeze making the silky curtains flutter.

"Come on, baby, go get it! Get it!"

A smile stretched across Kurt's face as he leaned against the door frame, watching the frisbee soar through the air to land several feet away. Noah's arm was still outstretched, the lean muscles of his shoulders and back visible through his thin shirt.

"Come on, I know you can do it! See, I'll show you one more time."

The small white puppy skipped happily next to Noah when he jogged across the garden, his feet bare against the green grass and his pants rolled up. His smile was so wide when he grabbed the frisbee from the ground, his eyes glittering when he tried to hand it over to the dog. Kurt shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie.

"You know you want it."

"You do know she prefers the soccer ball, right?" Kurt called out to catch his attention.

Noah looked up, his grin widening and he nodded.

"I'm trying to teach her. Look, baby! Have you seen who's home? Daddy's home!"

Noah gestured wildly towards the door opening until the puppy turned her head and caught sight of Kurt. He pulled off his socks and stepped out onto the grass too, to meet the wildly running dog halfway. The little body crashed into his, a flurry of petite paws and waving tail and Kurt brought her up into his arms, allowing her rosy tongue to kiss his chin.

Noah walked over too, that lazy, content smile adorning his features - his skin a gentle brown in the setting sun. His large hand settled easily around Kurt's hip, his thumb pressing against the bone.

"Welcome home, love," he murmured and brushed their lips together.

* * *

><p><em>AN2: Thank you for reading! Please leave a review if you feel so inclined._

_Hugs and kisses,  
>Becka<em>


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